A Soufflé of Suspicion

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “Don’t worry. I will watch over her and make sure she eats.” She petted my cheek again. “Go.”

  When I arrived at the bistro, the staff asked why Camille wasn’t there. Not knowing how much Tyson would allow me to say but certain I could share a few things, I told them the basics. A pall settled over everyone. Heather grew teary. Stefan was the glummest of the bunch. With all the oomph I could muster, I begged everyone to buck up. Chef C would be furious if we let her down by turning out a day of bad meals.

  Around ten AM, Jo stopped in, responding to a text message I’d sent telling her to “see me.” She looked fresh in a pineapple-yellow dress. Her disposition matched the cheery color. “Hey,” she said as she sauntered toward the bar, where I was polishing the chrome features. “What’s new, pussycat?”

  Heather was helping the waitstaff place crane-shaped napkins on tables. She peered at us, concern in her gaze.

  I set aside my cleaning tools. “Jo—”

  “Everything is lively at the festival,” she continued. “Sunday crowds are ebullient. I haven’t seen Renee yet, but her husband seems to be managing things quite well. He’s making nice with all the vendors.”

  “Rusty?” I faltered. So he had gotten his way after all. Tyson had let him take the helm for his late wife. “Listen, Jo, there’s something I need to tell you…”

  “What’s wrong?” She perched on a stool and patted the one beside her.

  I sat and folded my hands in my lap. “Renee…” My voice caught in my throat. “Renee was murdered last night.”

  Jo’s mouth dropped open. “Are you kidding me? When? How?”

  I shared the same details I’d given the staff. “I can’t believe Rusty didn’t tell you.”

  “He didn’t mention a thing,” Jo said. “What a poker face he has. How can he be holding it together?”

  “I’m shocked Tyson is allowing him to oversee things. I thought he would have—” I faltered. “Tyson didn’t tell you, either.”

  “You know him. He holds his cards close to the vest.”

  Tears pressed at the corners of my eyes. I hadn’t cried last night. I hadn’t known Renee that well. But now the awfulness of the situation for Camille pierced me like a skewer. All I could recall was her grief and her plea for me to help her.

  Jo hugged me. “Let it out. You know if you don’t—”

  I wept. My shoulders heaved. After a long minute, a horrible notion hit me. I said through jagged breaths, “If Tyson told Rusty he was free to supervise his wife’s proceedings, then he must think Camille is guilty.”

  “That’s not true. You don’t know that. You said a second ago that Rusty provided Camille with an alibi. Tyson might think they’re both innocent.”

  I broke free of her. “Do you really think so?”

  “Yes, I do.” She handed me a cocktail napkin. “If only we had another suspect.”

  “I suggested the former owner of the festival to Tyson.”

  “Allie O’Malley? I heard festivalgoers gossiping about the way she and Renee went at each other on Friday.”

  I bobbed my head. “I witnessed the fight.”

  “As my sister would say, Allie’s got claws and sharp teeth.” Jo bared hers.

  “According to Allie, she wasn’t pleased with the way Renee handled their contract. Renee blamed Allie, who didn’t have a lawyer review the agreement.”

  “Oops.”

  “As much as I don’t like speaking ill of the dead…” I really didn’t. Rumors could spread like wildfires.

  Jo motioned for me to continue. “My lips are sealed.”

  “I’m pretty sure Renee took advantage of Allie. She was downright condescending when Allie claimed she’d hoodwinked her.”

  “Getting duped is a pretty good motive for murder.”

  “I agree. I’ll talk to Tyson about her again.” Jo cuffed me on the arm and headed off. She stopped short of the exit, spun around, and waggled her cell phone. “I almost forgot. You texted me.”

  “To tell you the news about Renee and to tell you I’m on duty. Chef C needs the day off.”

  “Of course she does. Gosh, where is she? At home? Do you want to pack a meal and take it over?”

  “She’s staying at my cottage. Her place is off-limits.”

  Jo groaned.

  “She’s exhausted,” I went on. “My mother is with her. She’ll feed her. I can handle lunch, but we’re so booked because of the festival crowd and Crush Week that I’ll need an assistant at dinner. Do you think Yves can help out?” Yves was the breakfast chef at Maison Rousseau.

  “He can, but only for tonight. He’s going out of town tomorrow. Family business. We’ve arranged for a temp for a week, a female chef. She’s a genius with French toast.”

  “Tonight would be great. Thanks.”

  “I’ll arrange it.” Jo told me to stay strong and hurried off.

  By noon, we were so busy that none of the bistro’s staff had time to breathe. Over the course of the next two hours we made no less than twelve orders of beef stew, six orders of ratatouille, seven orders of côte de porc—savory pork chops served with shallots and cornichons—twenty French onion soups, ten servings of salade Niçoise, and two dozen chocolate soufflés with crème anglaise, and that wasn’t counting all the chicken dishes and appetizers. We worked nonstop.

  When the crowd dwindled to two or three tables, I called my mother. She said Camille had roused for a moment and then fallen back to sleep. She urged me not to worry. Sleep was a great healer.

  By three PM, I was exhausted. The emotions roiling through me were raw. Thinking of Renee lying dead on Camille’s kitchen floor made me nauseous. What was the world coming to? Napa Valley was supposed to be a gentle, loving place.

  I walked to the vegetable garden between the bistro and the inn and sat on a bench. I closed my eyes and took deep, restorative breaths. The sun warmed my face. The sound of the gentle breeze cleared my head. I could even hear bees buzzing as they flitted from fading sunflower to fading sunflower.

  When Yves showed up at four PM to help with dinner, I rallied. He was a tall man with a simple face and easy demeanor, and he was quite capable with food presentation. He wasn’t as clever or as independent as Camille, but I couldn’t worry about that now.

  We concocted the prix fixe menu. Diners would have their choice of lobster bisque—my grandmother’s recipe—or a baby-greens salad with fresh figs, goat cheese, and raspberry vinaigrette. They could then choose between a three-cheese plate or pâté du jour. The main course would be chicken au jus with steak frites—a mouth-watering way to quick-cook chicken and top with pan juices and fries. For dessert, I settled on a selection of petit fours. Two would be filled with apricot glaze; the other two would be filled with blueberry jam. I loved making them; Stefan enjoyed decorating them.

  Six hours later, I pecked Yves on both cheeks, thanked him for his devoted service, wished him luck with his family business—whatever that entailed—and slogged home. Camille didn’t stir when I entered. Riesling did. He bounded to me. My mother followed him and strapped on his leash.

  “I’ve set a therapist appointment for Camille in the morning,” she said. “I’ll return bright and early to escort her. Also, I fed your fish, and I provided treats for your cat.”

  “Cat?”

  “The black one. Fast as all get-out. He has come and gone. I don’t think he appreciated seeing Riesling here. Cats can be territorial.” She kissed me la bise—on both cheeks—and gave my arm a quick squeeze. “Go to bed. You look beat.”

  I crashed onto the mattress, thinking how lucky I was to have the best mother in the world. I hoped sleep might make me look half as good as she did tomorrow.

  * * *

  Monday morning I awoke before dawn. By the time I’d downed two cups of French press coffee and washed my cup, my mother had shown up looking fresh in an aqua tunic, leggings, and lacy sandals. She eyed my work outfit with displeasure. She thought it was odd that I didn’t change it up d
aily. She would have preferred that I wear more colorful ensembles.

  “Will a pretty scarf turn that frown upside down?” I joked.

  “Yes, please.”

  I chose a pink chiffon circle scarf and looped it fashionably around my neck. My mother patted my cheek.

  “Do we have company?” Camille asked as she exited the bathroom in a chenille robe, her face glistening with moisturizer, her hair damp.

  “Good morning,” my mother said.

  “Bonjour, Ginette. Thank you for coming.” After sleeping all day Sunday, Camille had paced through the night. I’d heard her talking on and off to Cagney and Lacey, spilling out her concern for Renee’s soul. “I don’t know what I would do without you and your daughter.”

  “Think nothing of it,” my mother said. “Let’s get you fed and on the road.”

  “I am not hungry.”

  “I know, but you’re going to eat.”

  “Let me change clothes first.” Camille retreated to my bedroom and shut the door.

  My mother shooed me out of the cottage. “Go. She’ll be fine.”

  I hadn’t been sitting at my desk in the bistro office more than two minutes when Donovan Coleman rushed in.

  Heather was trying to stop him. “Sir, you’ll have to wait outside.” Though she was no slouch in the height department, she appeared quite diminutive next to him. “Sir, please.”

  Donovan pulled free and plowed inside.

  “I’m sorry, Mimi,” Heather murmured and shot him a disparaging look.

  “No worries,” I said. “I have a minute. Donovan, come in.”

  “Thank you.” Donovan was as lanky and sinewy as a long-distance runner. His arm muscles pressed at the seams of his short-sleeved shirt. His trousers hung on his lean legs. With his oat-colored hair and hyper-alert eyes, he reminded me of a puma ready to spring at a moment’s notice—a very attractive puma.

  “Have a seat,” I said.

  The office was decorated with a French flair: cream-colored rustic file cabinets, a couple of green-tinted industrial barn wood side tables, a weathered gray kidney-shaped French desk with scrolled legs, and—my favorite—a pair of ecru shabby chic chairs.

  Donovan didn’t sit. He shifted feet.

  “Okay, stand.” I forced a smile. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for Camille.” His voice was young-sounding for a man in his thirties. “She’s not at home. She’s not here, according to her.” He jerked a thumb at Heather.

  “I have a name. It’s Heather.”

  “Sorry.” Donovan acknowledged her with a flick of his hand, which seemed to placate her. “Heather.”

  “Camille is at the doctor’s office,” I said.

  “Is she ill?” His voice scudded upward.

  “She’s suffering.”

  “Because her sister died.”

  “She was murdered,” Heather said, clipping off the words.

  “Yes, of course. I heard. I didn’t mean to diminish…” Donovan staggered into one of the chairs and swooped a hank of hair off his forehead. “I am so sorry for Camille.”

  “And not Renee?” Heather hissed. Gee, she was acting crusty.

  “Of course, I’m sorry for her. All I meant was—”

  “Renee was making soufflé,” Heather said.

  “Soufflé?” Donovan repeated.

  I shot my sweet assistant an annoyed look. She blanched. I had shared that tidbit with her and sworn her to secrecy. But since the truth was out, I said, “Do you like soufflé, Donovan?”

  “I do.”

  “We believe Renee was making it for you.”

  “Me?” he squawked.

  “Mimi!” a man called from the main dining room. I recognized his voice. Nash. The front door closed with a clack. Seconds later he appeared at the office door and rapped on it. He hesitated when he saw I had company.

  “Have a seat at the bar, Nash. I’ll be right out.” Mmm, he looked good in his white shirt, jeans, and leather jacket. He was carrying a two-pack of Nouvelle Vie Vineyards Chardonnay. “Heather, please get Nash a cup of tea or coffee. Thanks.”

  Nash eyed Donovan with outright disdain. What was that about? Without a word, he spun on his heel. Heather followed him, pausing to align one of the paintings on the wall before she exited.

  “Donovan,” I said in a reassuring tone, “I believe Renee might have been in love with you.”

  “With me?”

  “That’s why she was making soufflé, so she could impress you.”

  “But”—he sputtered—“I’m dating Camille. I gave Renee no indication…” He scrubbed his tousled hair with his fingertips. “Shoot. Do you think when we went to The Bookery that she might have gotten the wrong impression? She flirted with me, but I didn’t encourage it. She wanted to pitch an event to the place. I went there to study the cookies.”

  “So you could start your own bakery.”

  “Yes. The Bookery has a great café. I wanted to analyze its model and see the selection of baked goods and meet the staff.” He splayed his hands. “As you know, all it takes is one wrong move, and a reputation can be ruined. When I take the big leap, I want my business to be an instant success.”

  “Success doesn’t always come in an instant.”

  “I know that.” He pursed his lips. “But I’ve got to make it big and fast; otherwise my father will stick it to me. See, he doesn’t think I have it in me to be successful, but I do.” He sat taller and squared his shoulders. “And I will be. I…” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. This isn’t about me.”

  “In a way it is.”

  “No, I mean it’s not about my success or my relationship with my father or…” He fanned the air with his enormous hands. “When I went to Camille’s house this morning, a neighbor told me what happened. She said you saw the crime scene, Mimi. You were there. Is that true?”

  “Yes.” How much of the story had leaked at this point? Was he testing me to see if I would reveal details? A fleeting notion ran through my mind. Was there any reason for him to have killed Renee? Had he made a move on her, but she rebuffed him, as Rusty had suggested? Or had Renee learned something nefarious about him on their outing that he might want kept quiet? I recalled the finger drawing she had started in the flour. Had she meant to implicate him by drawing a heart?

  Donovan tilted his head. “What? You’re looking at me funny.”

  “I was wondering where you were Saturday night.”

  “You don’t think I had anything to do with Renee’s murder, do you?” His eyes widened. “You do.”

  “No, I—”

  “Why?” he cut in. “I have no motive. No cause to wish her ill. She was a friend. She was Camille’s sister. The sheriff already questioned me.”

  “Sergeant Daly?”

  “Uh-huh. He didn’t say why, but I know it’s because of the love letter that was found.”

  My mental antenna went on high alert. I tilted forward in my chair. “How do you know about that if the sheriff didn’t mention it?”

  “Camille’s neighbor—a caterer—told me. She said…” He twirled a hand. “The whole neighborhood is talking, Mimi. Everyone has a theory.”

  So much for secrets staying secret.

  “Since you asked, I was teaching a cooking class that night.” Donovan rose to his feet and removed a business card from his wallet. He placed it on my desk. “You can call the school like the sheriff did, if that’ll convince you. I taught six students. We made pavlova, meringue nests filled with fresh fruit and whipped cream. It’s named after the ballerina—”

  “Anna Pavlova. It’s delicious.”

  Donovan lowered his chin and exhaled. “When you see Camille, please tell her I came looking for her. When she’s up to seeing me, I’m here for her.” He shuffled out.

  A minute later, I joined Nash at the bar and perched on the stool next to his. He smelled like a tasty mixture of honey and lemon. I leaned closer to drink in more of his scent as I set Donovan’s bus
iness card on the countertop.

  “I like the scarf,” he said, twirling his finger in my direction.

  “My mother’s idea. What do you have on tap today?”

  “The newest Chardonnay release from your mother’s vineyard. We’re calling it Live Fully.” He had opened the wine and poured two tasting samples. He pushed a glass by the stem toward me. “It’s great, if you ask me, with a vigorous acidity and nice balance of tropical fruit.”

  I loved how he explained wine. His word choices were accessible and unpretentious.

  He hitched his chin toward the exit. “Why was Donovan Coleman here?”

  “He came looking for Camille.” I swirled the wine. “Why don’t you like him?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “It is. Could it be because he’s younger than you?” I asked, goading him.

  Nash threw me a mock-scornful look. “Hardly.”

  “At least you’re better-looking, old man.”

  “Bet your sweet booty I am.”

  Playfully he tapped my hand. A shiver of desire ran up my arm.

  I took a sip of the wine and swirled it around my tongue. “Yum. This will pair perfectly with shellfish.” I set the glass aside. I didn’t want to drink any more before lunch. I needed my wits about me. “Care to tell me why you don’t like Donovan?”

  “He’s a flake.”

  “How so?”

  “He had a run-in with my ex.” Nash’s ex-wife, Willow, owned Fruit of the Vine Artworks in Yountville. The shop featured local artists’ works. Every piece was unique. I’d found two of the mirrors that were hanging on the bistro walls at her shop.

  “What was the run-in about?”

  “He was purchasing some blown-glass platters and asked for discounts because of imperfections.”

  “Okay.” I wasn’t ready to jump to conclusions. I’d have done the same. “Go on.”

  “He was nasty about it. Willow felt threatened and called me.”

  Had she really felt intimidated? I wasn’t convinced she was ready to let Nash go, even though she’d signed the divorce papers. Don’t get me wrong. I liked Willow. But she wasn’t your typical damsel-in-distress type. Maybe she had called Nash to make him think she needed him so he could feel manly and act as her protector.